


You're standing in my doorway, seven cities ago

by ang3lsh1



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fae Magic, Kissing, M/M, Rimming, Very vague dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lsh1/pseuds/ang3lsh1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Also known as Five times Erik wanders into a shop and the one time he stays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're standing in my doorway, seven cities ago

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rohnoc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rohnoc/gifts).



> Written for **Rohnoc's** prompt of **Wandering Shops/The Little Shop That Wasn't There Yesterday**. I deviated a little from the original prompt but I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, **redacted**. You all should thank her very much for coaxing the last scene, which I wasn't going to write at all.
> 
> The title comes from **The Hush Sound's** song, **Hurricane**.

In all the cities Erik has visited, there has always been one shop that he always finds himself drawn to. It is never the same shop nor is it even the same type of shop. Nevertheless without putting too much thought into it, some how he always finds his feet bringing himself to one particular shop, though he has never stepped in. If asked why he does so, he would never be able to answer why, and later one, he would not even recall himself doing so.

 

***

 

The first time Erik gives into temptation is during a layover in Prague sometime in late winter. His train arrives too early in the morning, long before the winter sun rises for anything to be open and the city itself is covered in a fine mist.

 

If questioned as to why he decides upon this teahouse, his only response is that he only stepped into it to get out of the cold, and there wasn’t anything particularly memorable about it.

 

He steps in and is met by warmth from the fire going in the back of the shop. A clear bell attached to the door announces his presence much more clearly than any spoken word could.

 

It is met by a crisp, English accent calling out from the back, “Please seat yourself, while I’ll prepare something to warm you up.”

 

Erik removes his fedora and coat, leaving it to rest on the coat hooks, he sees that the store is neat and cosy enough. No sense in tracking the morning dew everywhere, his mama taught him better than that.

 

Despite still being chilled from the cold outside, he seats himself at a corner table, close to the door but with full view of the shop front.

 

Soon enough the store owner comes forth, head bent over a tray laden with a pot of tea and cups, along with baked goods from the scent of it.

 

He’s clearly not what Erik expected. The voice that called out from the back was young, but he didn’t expect to be met by a young man, dressed like an octogenarian in a snug, navy cardigan. Erik is still deciding whether he stepped into one of those hipster shops by accident when he lays the tray upon Erik’s table and takes the seat opposite him.

 

The owner then pours Erik a cup of tea - Darjeeling by the scent of it -  passes it over along with a plate of scones with utensils for Erik to use. And then promptly pours himself a cup of tea as well.

 

Erik would be affronted by this blatant show of familiarity if his stomach hadn’t taken that moment to assert itself and remind him that the last meal he had was during the previous night. No sense in passing up food that is offered, he decides to tuck in.

 

“This is really good, thank you,” Erik says. The scones are warm and made with just the right amount of butter and the strawberry jam offered to go with it is sweet but has a tartness that shows that it is homemade.

 

“I’m glad you think so,” the owner offers up with a wink, pinching a piece off Erik’s plate and pops it in his mouth, pink tongue dipping out to chase the bit of strawberry jam left on his finger.

 

His gaze follows that same tongue as it licks the remainder of the jam of the man’s red lips, reminding him that it has been awhile since his last sexual liaison.

 

Just as he is about to proposition the man, the owner looks up towards the storefront, he follows the man’s gaze and Erik realises that the sun has broken out from the clouds.

 

“Oh the sun has come back out,” the owner exclaims, turning a quick glance to watch on his wrist. “You best be off now, Erik. I’ll see you again soon.” And he’s all but ushering Erik out the door, taking on the time to help him back into his coat and fix his fedora upon his head and promptly setting him outside the door.

 

He gets over the shock of being politely shoved out the door and turns back only to find the lights off, doors locked and peering through the window, you’d think the lot had been abandoned for years.

 

A quick glance at his watch confirms that he has to leave for his train now if he’s to make it, as he heads off, there’s a niggling at his mind that there’s something important he should be remember but like the fog, it dissipates in the dawning sunlight.

 

***

 

Erik arrives in Berlin, stalking his way to an underground club in search of his target. His handler reports that the target he seeks is here and once he steps in, he’s assured that even if the information doesn’t hold, he’d be able to finally get a decent drink in here.

 

From the outside the Blackbird appears to be a seedy little hole hidden in the back alleys but the interior spoke otherwise, with dark wood interiors, velvet cushioned seating areas, along with the stage to the left, a jazz quartet playing another rendition of ‘Blue Rhapsody’. The bar appears to be well stocked. Well, the first order of business is to get a drink, all the better to blend into the crowd.

 

The bartender has his back facing towards him, and he seems vaguely familiar from his silhouette and floppy brown hair, dressed in slacks, waist cinched in with a black vest, still Erik isn’t quite able to place him until he spins round, places his hands on the countertop and asks in a thick Cockney accent, “What’ll it be tonite, guv’nor?”

 

Once again Erik is faced with the teahouse owner.

 

If he hadn’t already been ridiculously attractive back then, he’s breathtaking in a vest and plain black slacks, top two buttons of his shirt undone to reveal the hollow of his throat that Erik just wants to nip at, before he reels himself back to the situation at hand.

 

It can’t be coincidence that the same man just pops up in the same city, conveniently placed in the bar where his target is. As far as he knows from his handler, he shouldn’t be getting any outside help.

 

Before he can voice his suspicions, the man winks again, rolling up his shirtsleeves, “I’m just messing about,” that crisp, English accent again. “I know what you’d like,” deftly reaching behind him to pick up a bottle of scotch, the other hand pulling out a tumbler and pouring two fingers in.

 

Erik reaches for the tumbler and turns to leave, intent on leaving the insufferable man to his own devices. But the man grabs hold of his wrist, holding one finger up.

 

He proceeds to grab a bottle of gin and dry vermouth before pouring it into a mixer and shakes it four, no five times. He then pours it out into a martini glass, adds an olive and places a sliver of lemon rind on the rim of the glass with a flourish.

 

He pushes the glass forward to Erik and leans close.

 

“Your target is not the gentleman in the rear booth, but the leggy blonde attending to him, instead. And I happen to know that she’s very fond of this particular dry martini and that she has also been checking you out ever since you came in.” Erik shivers at the words against his ear; taking advantage of the distraction, he proceeds to push a card into Erik’s hand, leaving a teasing brush against his wrist, searing Erik like a brand.

 

Expecting to see a name and number, he looks down at the card in hand; he’s been handed the actual target’s business card. Gathering both drinks, he makes his way towards the target, who’s turning towards him in interest.

 

When questioned by his handler later, how did he manage to snag the actual target on first try, he’d only be able to mutter something about instinct even though the actual reason is niggling in the back of his mind, just out of reach.

 

***

 

The third time Erik runs into him again is in Marrakech.

 

The souks are filled with all sorts of colours and scents, from the rich tapestry to the scent of tanning leather to the argan oil used for beauty purposes. It’s a pity Erik doesn’t have time to take in the sights. Pounding down the sandy floors, he makes his way into the souks, in hopes that he’d be able to lose his pursuers in the crowd.

 

Once again his feet seems to make decisions on their own, veering left round this stall, then right after two blocks, leading him right in front a small, cramped space filled to the brim with books. And there right in front of him is his blue-eyed store owner, dressed in a simple blue kaftan, turning them an electric blue.

 

This time his eyes are wide-open in shock, but he regains composure quickly, reaching out and pulling him in, disrupting that train of thought.

 

“Why sir, today is our lucky day! You’re my very first customer of the day,” taking care to pitch his voice out loud enough for neighbouring vendors to hear and understand. “You must come in, have tea with me while we view my wares.”

 

He pulls Erik in, towards the back of the stall, seating him down in a corner, out of sight from the outside, presumably where the cash register is normally kept. He pulls out two cups and disappears into what he assumes is the kitchen area, before coming back out with a silver pot, pouring steaming, dark liquid into the two cups.

 

The scent of mint and verbena permeates the air. “I know your preference is for coffee but I just can’t forgo tea. Doesn’t matter where I am,” he says airily, sipping from his cup.

 

“...your name,” Erik heaves out, still winded from the run, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Outside he can still hear the clamour of shouts from his pursuers but the sounds are travelling further away from them now.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“This is the third time you’ve helped me. I’d like to be able to thank you properly,” Erik grits out, taking hold of his own cup. He’s right again, but the tea is strong and the mint is helping calm his nerves.

 

“It’s Charles,” he replies, hiding a red, red smile behind the lip of his cup.

 

Later when Erik leaves the souk, he’s left with memories of blue eyes, red, red lips and the name Charles.

 

***

 

He is trailing down the cobblestones of Paris when Erik’s feet take life of it’s own again. This time he lets himself go and follows the trail down to a small, yet humble antique shop.

 

He’s hit with deja vu when the tinkling of bells announces his presence in the little shop once again. He wanders about the shop, taking the time to survey and examine pieces that catch his eye until he chances upon a chessboard, laid out upon a table complete with two chairs.

 

Pieces arranged carefully into starting positions, waiting for both players to begin the game. They are carved out from ebony and ivory. Definitely old, the ivory yellowing with age. Erik knows of people who would spare no expense to be able to own a set this old. He picks up the white king, holding it up against the light to examine it. The craftsmanship is remarkable, minute details in the curvature of the sceptres and crown.

 

He spies the familiar figure out the corner his eye and turns to face Charles full on, leaning on against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him. Once again dressed in another cardigan, but still no less than the octogenarian get up from the first time. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses completely the picture; it should be obscuring the blue of his eyes, but it doesn’t, by now Erik knows there’s nothing quite natural about Charles.

 

He opens those red, red lips to speak, probably intending to espouse of the age and from whence this particular chess set hails from but Erik interrupts him with a brusque, “Do you play?”

 

Charles raises his eyebrows, clearly he wasn’t expecting this response. He pauses and starts again, ready to come back with a retort but thinks better of it.

 

He waves magnanimously towards the table, “Pick your side.”

 

Unfolding himself from the doorway, making his way to the opposite seat from Erik. “White for me, Erik? You shouldn’t have.” he chides gently, without heat.

 

“It’s your move,” Erik pushes the table towards him.

 

“And so it is,” Charles murmurs, before moving his pawn forward.

 

The rest of the afternoon passes in silence, they play a total of three games; one win, one loss and a tie.

 

This time Erik leaves with full memories of chess, tea and the vague promise of another encounter.

 

***

 

This time, Erik’s wandering down the cobblestones of Trento, in the beginning of summer, the morning sun beating down on him.

 

He didn’t need the time off but it is forced upon him by his handler; _you’re distracted. It isn’t like you. When was the last time you took leave? It’s showing in your reports. HR is demanding it_.

 

Somehow he found himself booking tickets to this small, idyllic village in the northern parts of Italy, when he had all but decided to languishing in his cold London apartment for the duration of his leave, he didn’t know what else to do with himself.

 

It’s a change. He has spent the past two days wandering about, waiting for that feeling to come back to his toes, to lead him to his destination. To wherever Charles has decided to set up shop again. But it’s been two days in this quiet town and there is no sign of those bright blue eyes anywhere at all. Perhaps the fact that shops seems to close for a three hour lunch hinders Charles from keeping the hours long enough for Erik to get there, he muses.

 

Parched, he makes his way over to the closest coffee house, he stalks over to the counter, intending to take his drink standing and leave, he gestures, “Un cafè per favore.”

 

“I would have thought I’d have converted you by now,” the familiar crisp, accent wafts towards him along with the scent of Ceylon tea, pushed towards him in a white, porcelain cup and saucer.

 

Erik is faced by bright blue eyes, red, red lips curving up into a gentle Mona Lisa smile. Overcome, he reaches out, tilts Charles’ chin up, bends down and kisses him softly. He feels his lips curve further up into a wider smile as Charles reaches up to tug Erik closer, one hand cupping the back of his neck, the other to tangle in his hair.

 

He wants to bring Charles closer to him, but the countertop is once again between them, so he’ll settle for cupping Charles face in his hands, turning the second kiss firmer, and gasps at the touch of Charles tongue against his bottom lip, who takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in his mouth. And he is tasting Charles, dark notes of tea, with the lingering aftertaste of vanilla and milk. He cannot get enough of this taste.

 

The second kiss turns into a third and a fourth, Erik wants nothing but to whisk Charles away and lay him down on silk sheets and see how far the freckles go. But then Charles is pulling away, and one of them is whimpering at the loss, it’s himself, Erik realises.

 

Charles lays a finger on his lips, Erik can’t help but let his tongue dart out for a taste. It’s worth it from the darkening of Charles’ eyes, turning them a midnight blue, at least he knows that he isn’t the only one affected.

 

“The things I would do to you Erik, wreck you for days upon my bed. I’d never let you go,” his voice is low and full of dark promises that makes Erik shiver.

 

“The next time you see me, you will have to make a choice,” Charles says softly as he pushes the countertop open, striding out towards Erik.

 

He’s so clearly intent on how well the blue vest wraps around Charles, the dusting of freckles on his forearms, revealed by shirtsleeves that has been pushed up and that Charles truly is as visible aroused as he is, that he doesn’t realise that Charles has once again ushered him out.

 

“Think carefully upon it, Erik,” Charles says, kissing him sweetly goodbye before shutting the door in his face.

 

***

 

When Erik is on mission in Shanghai, his feet takes him down a familiar cobblestone route and leads him straight on to a proper traditional teahouse, the vaguely fermented tones of _Pu'er_  wafting towards him. Clearly the tea has been left to steep for the appropriate amount of time already.

 

He doesn’t hesitate as he strides across the barrier towards Charles, dressed in a deep blue silk _qípáo_ who rises to greet him with open arms.

 

The door shuts behind him.

 

***

 

Charles awakens first at daybreak, old habits are hard to break. Erik is sprawled upon the red silk sheets, he is covered in marks, clearly showing who he belongs too, not that anyone ever will, if Charles has anything to do with it. He’d coaxed orgasm after orgasm out of Erik.

 

He’s spent nothing but hours, tasting every crevice of Erik’s body like a starving man before a banquet. Plundered his lips, stealing his every breath; to his dusky nipples, laving one with tongue and teeth, whilst carressing the other with his fingers, pinching and soothing in between bites. He savoured the taste of his prick, from the brine of his pre-ejaculate to the thicker taste of his seed, taking him deep down his throat. Erik hadn’t been able to hold back his shouts. Later he had turned him over on all fours, spread his legs and laved over his dusty pink pucker, in between his arse cheeks ignoring Erik’s protests until they turned into groans of pleasure. Then he licked inside of Erik’s arse, making him shout out loud in pleasure again, spurring Charles further on to taste what is his.

 

When Erik couldn’t take any more, limbs trembling from the effort of having to hold himself up, Charles coaxed him on to his back, stroking him down from chest to belly, soothing while the other hand fumbled in the drawers for the vial of oil. Uncorking it, the sweet scent of almonds permeates the air as he liberally coaxes his fingers.

 

After setting the vial away; no sense in wasting a good thing, he spent a good while bargaining it away from that particular vendor, he lifts Erik’s leg above his shoulder, using one finger, he slowly pushes past the rim of Erik’s hole. Gently he moves his finger in and out, taking care to observe Erik, who’s reduced to clutching the bedsheets. He knows when he’s found the spot, when Erik’s eyes fly wide open, pupils blown wide open only to reveal a ring of celadonite.

 

Charles tries to be patient, to take the time to coax Erik open further, but when Erik starts pleading with Charles to just get on with it. Well, he consoles himself that at least he had gotten three fingers in, Erik should be loose enough for him now. He pours more oil on himself, giving his prick a perfunctory stroke, anything to make it easier on Erik, before lining up the head of his prick against Erik’s hole. He can’t resist, teasing Erik just a little bit more but rubbing his head around the rim, teasing him with slow pushes but not quite pushing in yet.

 

Erik takes matters into his own hands by shoving his hips down, forcing the head of Charles prick in and Charles surges forward, capturing Erik’s lips in a hard kiss, full of tongue, trying to calm himself down from just following the urge to just bury himself deep in that velvet heat regardless of discomfort Erik must be feeling.

 

When the kiss breaks, Charles rests his forehead against Erik’s, both breathing hard, slowly he starts pushing in again. By the time he’s balls deep inside, Erik is writhing against him, his other leg coming up to wrap around Charles waist, heel digging into his back to urge him to move, move, move.

 

Charles can only give in to Erik’s pleas, slowly pulling out before pushing back in, he’s so tight and he wants nothing but to just bury himself deep inside until his seed spill inside Erik, who’s groaning in his ear, urging him to _just move faster, I can take it and I want all you inside me, marking me as yours_.

 

He can feel Eriks prick against his belly, hard again and when he takes Erik’s prick in hand, he groans to feel Erik already wet with his pre-ejaculate. He twists his hand, stroking Erik off in time to rhythm of his thrusts. He likes that he’s made Erik incoherent, the words spilling from his lips combinations of his name and please and more. It takes a twist of his thumb and forefinger over the head of his circumcised penis and Erik is spilling all over his hand, clenching down so tightly on him, it’s all Charles can do but come, spilling his seed deep, collapsing against Erik, who’s clutching at the hairs of the nape of his neck, the other hand stroking up and down his back.

 

Once Charles manages to catch his breath, he slowly pulls himself out, the whimper from Erik would be enough to get him hard again if he hadn’t spent himself so quickly. He drops a soft kiss on Erik’s forehead, who drowsily reaches out for him, _Sleep love, I’ll be right back_.

  
After running the water and cleaning himself off, he comes back to Erik with a warm, damp cloth, gently wiping traces of their lovemaking off, before cleaving himself to Erik’s back and drifting off to sleep as well.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You're Standing in My Doorway (The I Saw You from Afar Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150562) by [significantowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl)




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